Venezuela's government and opposition hold historic talks on judicial reform and frozen assets

Nieves Jose Benitez teaches high school in Delta Amacuro, a remote corner of Venezuela that borders Guyana. His monthly salary is seventeen cents. At seventy-two, he cannot retire. The region has lost so many skilled workers to migration that few qualified teachers remain, so he stays, supplementing his income with odd jobs and hunting, and money his relatives send from abroad. This week, he traveled to Caracas to march toward the Gran Melia hotel, a five-star building ringed by riot police, where something unprecedented was happening inside.

For six days, Venezuela's government and opposition sat down together for the first time since the United States removed and imprisoned former President Nicolas Maduro in January. The talks concluded Wednesday with two significant agreements: both sides would work to unlock Venezuelan assets frozen in foreign banks, and both would overhaul the country's judiciary, which for years has functioned as an instrument of the socialist government. For Benitez and the dozens of workers and pensioners marching outside, the moment felt like possibility. "There's nothing better than dialogue," he said. "We have to find solutions. But we also have to be constantly vigilant. Because the government wants to do whatever it pleases."

The judicial reform caught many observers by surprise. The Supreme Tribunal of Justice, Venezuela's highest court, would see every magistrate replaced. An independent body would evaluate candidates for the new positions. This matters because the court has been thoroughly captured by the government—in 2024, it endorsed Maduro's claim to a third consecutive election victory despite evidence showing the opposition had won. Carmen Beatriz Fernandez, a Venezuelan political analyst, said she had not expected changes of this magnitude. "It is even more important in the long term than electoral reforms," she explained. "Because if you don't have a change in the TSJ, electoral reforms could be reversed."

This dialogue differs sharply from seventeen previous attempts to bridge the government-opposition divide since Hugo Chavez took power in 1999. Past mediators—the Vatican, Norway—achieved limited results: the release of some political prisoners, occasional humanitarian measures. Nothing stuck. This time, the United States is directly involved, and that changes everything. Secretary of State Marco Rubio called the talks the beginning of a "transition process" to rebuild democracy. But President Trump has cautioned that Venezuela is "not ready yet" for elections and has backed acting President Delcy Rodriguez, a chavista who took office after Maduro's removal. Fernandez noted that while Washington frames itself as a facilitator, it operates from a position of military force. "We are not dealing with soft power," she said. "We are dealing with hard power."

The opposition's negotiating team was led by Dinorah Figuera, head of the 2015 National Assembly, the last legislature widely considered democratically elected. Notably absent was Maria Corina Machado, the opposition's most prominent figure, who won the last opposition primary before being barred from the 2024 race. Pedro Urruchurtu, one of Machado's closest advisers, said her party supported measures that could advance democratic change, but he demanded transparency and real results. "No mechanism will succeed if the people and their aspirations are not taken into account," he told Al Jazeera from exile. Machado's absence has drawn criticism, though some analysts suggest it may protect her politically—if the talks succeed, she benefits; if they fail, she bears no responsibility.

Outside the hotel, former political prisoners pushed for a timetable on elections and the release of those still detained. Americo de Grazia, a former National Assembly member, spent more than a year in El Helicoide prison after his arrest in August 2024. He never saw his case file. He welcomed the judicial overhaul but remains skeptical about the negotiations' true purpose. "It's not just the Rodriguez family's desire to stay in power," he said. "It's also the United States' intention to turn Venezuela into a colony." Yet he sees the talks as an opportunity Venezuela cannot ignore—a chance to escape "the labyrinth we are trapped in, in a peaceful, democratic, constitutional and electoral way."

Aranza Hernandez was nineteen when detained in November 2025 on terrorism charges related to an alleged bomb plot. Her sixteen-year-old sister was also arrested. Both deny involvement. Amnesty International says the family was targeted for retaliation because Hernandez's brother, a military officer, fled Venezuela after involvement in an antigovernment uprising in 2019. Hernandez was released in June, but her cousin and uncle remain imprisoned. Foro Penal estimates at least 391 people are held as political prisoners in Venezuela. "There is no law here, there are no rights here, there is nothing," Hernandez said at a protest. "The focus should be the political prisoners—and the freedom of an entire country."

The agreements themselves represent a calculated trade-off. Both sides can claim victory: the government points to the recovery of thirty-one tonnes of Venezuelan gold worth roughly four billion dollars, frozen at the Bank of England since 2019 when Britain refused to recognize Maduro. The opposition celebrates the court overhaul. But Fernandez argues the judicial reform is the larger prize. "If you put the two things on a scale—where on one side you have the gold, and on the other you have a democratic TSJ—without a doubt the greater asset is the TSJ." Yet this is only the beginning. These talks are the first in what could be months of negotiations, with the possibility of further agreements, elections, and a new president still uncertain. The real test will be whether the words become law, and whether the people—the teachers earning pennies, the prisoners still behind bars, the families torn apart—see their lives actually change.